


Night of the Living Prom King

by guineaDogs, orphan_account



Category: South Park
Genre: Drunken Shenanigans, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Prom, Randy Week, Randy Week 2019, drinking and driving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-10-21 00:37:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20684585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guineaDogs/pseuds/guineaDogs, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Randy Week Day 3: Staaaaaaan!Upon realizing Stan is off enjoying his senior prom, Randy fears for the worst and does everything he can to try to save him before it's too late.





	Night of the Living Prom King

**Author's Note:**

> we had a lot of fun with this one :)

"Sharon! Sharon!" Randy's calls were urgent from their shared bedroom. When she didn't answer, he bolted down the hall, stumbling down the stairs as he still called for her. He finally found her in the kitchen, talking on her phone, blatantly ignoring him. "Sharon!"

She gave him an irritated look, covering the mic on her phone. "What?"

"Where's Stan?"

"He went to prom with his friends."

" _ WHAT, _ " Sheer panic filled him. Stan—he couldn't go to prom. He  _ couldn't. _

Sharon sighed heavily. "Sheila, I'm going to have to call you back." Call ended, she looked up at Randy from her spot at the kitchen table. "What's the problem, Randy? He's a senior. This is a big deal. We went to prom too when we were his age."

"Exactly, Sharon! Don't you remember what happened!" It was clear to him that she wasn't going to be much help, so he grabbed his keys from the kitchen counter and jacket from the back of a chair at the table, he intended to run for the front door. He didn’t even notice Sharon get up as he gathered his belongings. "Don't worry, Stan! Dad's going to come save you!"

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” Sharon blocked his way, her arms crossed firmly across her chest, and her eyebrows knit in the center of her forehead. “Randy, it’s  _ prom. _ Let him have fun.” She explained this to him with all the patience of a middle school teacher about to snap so hard it’d make her get put on a leave of absence. “Stan and his little friends are good kids. They’re not going to do anything that—“

“But don’t you  _ get it, _ Sharon?” Randy grasped her upper arms, shaking her slightly as he inched closer to her face, close enough to smell the white wine on Sharon’s breath. Wine.... that sounded like a good idea. A couple glasses of wine before he hit the road to find his son, and save him from certain doom.

“Get  _ what.” _

Randy practically whined as spoke through clenched teeth. "Prom is how we got  _ Shelly _ ."

Sharon moved out of his grip at that point, but continued blocking his path out. That was fine, there was more than one exit. "Unprotected sex was how I got pregnant with Shelly, Randy."

"At prom!"

Sharon glared at him, and tapped her foot.

_ ”Whaaaat?” _ Randy traversed to the other side of the kitchen, grabbing a wine bottle off the countertop, and screwing off the lid. He was glad he stopped fucking around with corks. Those took way too much time. He took a swig, a bit dribbling out and catching itself in his mustache. “We had sex at  _ prom _ and Shelly... Shelly’s still  _ here, _ Sharon, don’t you see?” He slammed the bottle down on the counter triumphantly. “Sharon. We  _ can’t _ let this happen. We can’t let Stan grow up and become saddled with a twenty-two year old living in his house and eating all their  _ food, _ Sharon!”

Sharon pinched the bridge of her nose, a clear gesture that she wasn't going to argue with him, which meant that he was right. She just didn’t want to admit that. When she did speak a few moments later, it was with a heavy sigh. Tired, probably. Menopause did that. "Have a seat, Randy. You're staying in, and Stan is going to have his night."

Randy shook his head fervently. "You can't stop me, Sharon. I have to save our boy."

He left in a panicked rush, grabbing the wine bottle again for good measure. A mission like this meant he needed a little liquid courage. Something to keep him grounded as he navigated the pheromone-infested waters of Park County High’s gymnasium.

He peeled out of the driveway in a similar fashion, the tires on his SUV screeching as he sped toward the school. The wine bottle didn’t fit inside of the cup holder, but that was fine—Randy simply wedged it between his thighs, taking a quick swig here and there when he was sure there were no cops around.

He repeatedly looked at the clock on his dash as he drove. Ten o'clock. Prom had barely been going on for an hour, but that was long enough to get bored and ditch— _ god, _ Randy couldn't stomach the thought of his son following down the same path he did. With a Shelly of his own—with a  _ Sharon _ of his own. 

This time, when he took a swig from the bottle of wine, he was chugging it. He also went through a red light, but with Park County being sparsely populated, it didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was getting to Stan as soon as possible.

“Carry On My Wayward Son” blasted from the classic rock station Randy chose before setting out on this journey, and it fueled him, both in speed of the car and in determination. It was like he was one of those dudes on that gay little show about demon hunters. Only instead of navigating the underworld to kick some otherworldly ass, or whatever the hell it was that they actually did on that show, he was on a single-handed mission to go through all the creeps and freaks and... geeks that would surely be at this prom and find his damn son.

The moment he pulled into the Park County High parking lot, he slammed the rest of the wine. Getting out of his car, which he parked crookedly in the back of the lot, halfway on some grass and halfway on the pavement, he dropped it to the ground. It shattered with a satisfying smash.

"I'm comin' for you, Stannie Boy!"

Breaking off into a wobbly sprint, he headed straight for the gymnasium where the dance was held. There were a few groups of students huddled around the railing outside, but none of them had black hair so they definitely weren't Stan.

He ran past them, but was stopped by one of the ticketers. It was some scrawny kid with bad acne and braces. "S-Sir, you can't just go in there. It's a dance for juniors and seniors—and you have to have a ticket."

Ticket, schmicket! He reached into his pocket and threw a receipt and a Sonic peppermint at him. "It's an emergency, god damn you! Don't you people understand!”

"Sir, I can't let—"

"My  _ boy _ is in there, don't you see? My  _ boy! _ " He grabbed the pizza faced boy by the lapel of his rented tuxedo. "This is life or death. Literally. Life or death, kid; do you want a freeloader in your house? Because that's what my Stannie is gonna get if he stays in there!"

"Um." The kid's face contorted with what Randy presumed was fear, rather than confusion. Served that little shit right.

He ventured into the gymnasium proper, immediately assaulted by the shitty mumble bop that the kids listened to these days. The room was crammed full of students: a mass on the dance floor, swaying and dancing in a manner that Randy didn't think counted as dancing, others hovering by the food and drink, and then an even larger collection of groups of different sizes, standing and talking.

Randy ran around blindly, shoving past couples on the dance floor, bumping into someone who promptly spilled punch on someone else, until finally he spotted a tall young man—no,  _ boy, _ Stan wasn't allowed to grow up—hovering close to another student he quickly recognized as Gerald's boy.

Red hair, check. Black hair, check. That was Stan. He didn't quite remember Stan being  _ that _ tall, or  _ that _ thin, but he always knew that he and Kyle were funny, so it had to be him. Why else would he be leaning against one of his arms that he had pressed against the wall close to Kyle's head, like he was trying to put the moves on—goddammit, no!

Beelining over, he barely caught on to the conversation.

"—seriously, your hair, it's perfect. I haven't worked with curly hair before—"

"—dude, shut up," Kyle responded, laughing like some kind of teenage girl. The light smack on Stan's shoulder was more of a caress.

"Stan!"

Stan didn't acknowledge him. Instead, he leaned in closer to Kyle, pressing a kiss to his forehead. He  _ knew _ it! He knew that they were funny. Randy was PC and all, there wasn't anything  _ wrong _ with this... but this didn't mean Stan was safe at prom! What if he got in a fight with his boyfriend, and found comfort in some girl?

_ "Staaaan!" _ He grasped his son's arm, spinning him around.

Huh. Here he thought that only Shelly had to get braces. Maybe Sharon's insurance was paying for Stan's, because Randy sure as hell couldn't recall the metal on his kid's teeth coming out of his own paycheck.

"Mr. Marsh?" Stan's voice was deeper, too.

Kyle rolled his eyes. "Didn't know you were chaperoning, Randy."

"Stan?" Randy asked, voice rising an octave.

"It's Craig, Mr. Marsh."

"No, no, I'm looking for Stan."

Kyle shared a glance with the kid who  _ apparently _ wasn't his boy, before he spoke again. "Stan isn't here. Obviously."

"Where is he!"

"I don't  _ know. _ Last time I saw him it was when we were checking out the chocolate fountain."

Finally, answers! It was a good thing he could count on Kyle—he was a good kid, really, practically like his own. Which was why he squeezed his shoulder as a parting gesture. "Stay safe tonight, boys." And just like that, he was running to the other side of the gymnasium.

The school spared no expense when it came to refreshments—there was the high school equivalent to an open bar, with punch, sodas, and waters being served by tired-looking staff. There were plates of sandwiches, vegetables, and fruits, with cookies and lemon bars, and the piece de resistance—the chocolate fountain, sticking up like a beacon in the center of the buffet table. Were Randy not here on business, he'd have no qualms about taking advantage of this arrangement and shoveling some sweets in his face.

But there was no time for that. There was work to be done. Lives to be saved. He felt a little bit like Marty McFly in  _ Back to The Future _ —trying to stop an event that would change the fabric of space and time as he knew it. He was a hero. He could do this. He  _ would _ do this.

The problem was, all these kids looked exactly the goddamn same in black tuxedos, and without their hats. "Stan?" He cried out, approaching the black haired kid at the chocolate fountain. He stood with that weird little British kid, who looked delighted and fascinated at the way the chocolate fountain coated the chunk of pineapple he dunked into it.

"I am the Prince of Darkness. I am the son of the night. I'm not your pussy-ass kid, dude." Randy could've sworn he saw the kid's eyes flash red as he grabbed the other boy by the crook of his elbow, pulling him toward the cookies. “Come, darling. Let us enjoy the merrymaking of the music you mortals call  _ pop.” _

"Ugh, I'm looking for my son, not you, Marilyn Manson!"

Randy shoved at him—even if it was mostly at the space Damien vacated—and ran away, kicking his heels as he ran around the gymnasium some more, plowing past unassuming couples. It wasn't much longer before he  _ finally _ saw his son.

"Stan! Thank god," he said, embracing his son. "Don't worry, Daddy's here. We'll get you out of here and somewhere safe. It's going to be alright."

Stan pushed him away, shaking his head. "I'm David."

Realization dawned upon Randy. "Oh, you're that kid with the restaurant! Your food is both traditional, and innovative. As a Yelp critic, I appreciate your dedication to bringing unique cuisine to the town of South Park."

The kid gave him an embarrassed grin. "It's my parents' restaurant, not mine. Actually, I think Stan and those dudes are over by the—"

"David, c'mon! They're gonna play the song I put in!" A pretty blonde girl jerked him away by the hand before he could finish his sentence.

This was terrifying. It was as if Randy were in a room of pod people, a room of imposters. Everything was beginning to blur together, and not just because of the wine. Was this real? Was  _ Stan _ real? Was this really  _ happening? _ Did Randy even have a son, or had he finally lost it?

He was hot, and as the room spun about him, he could feel every bead of sweat dripping down from his forehead individually as he looked about the room, becoming more and more desperate as time went on. 

And that was when he saw him. Without a doubt, it was Stan. His back was to him, but he knew that black hair, he knew that haircut. The tux wasn't really... cut the right way, but it was a suit. It was Stan. And  _ oh no, _ he was leaning against a cocktail table, chatting up a bunch of girls.

He was too young to have one future freeloader, much less  _ four _ — "Stanley! Quickly, son! We must make haste—" The girls fell silent as Randy snatched up Stan's hand to tug him away. But for some reason, Stan whirled around and looked ready to fight until recognition crossed his face.

"What?" Stan's brows furrowed. "Something happened to Stan?"

"No! You're Stan, and we have to leave right now."

"Mr. Marsh, I'm Wendy. You've known me since I was a kid."

"W...Wendy?" Randy asked, slowly, carefully, as he inspected this  _ alleged _ Wendy's face. He supposed it made sense. While Stan was known to wear eyeliner when he was all sad and shit, he never went this... glamorous, with the glitter and the shiny, sticky crap on his lips.

Her brows furrowed. "Yes, Mr. Marsh, it's Wendy. Are you okay? Do you need some water? Here, come sit—"

"This isn't time for  _ sitting, _ Wend—" Randy gasped.  _ Wendy. _ If Wendy was alone, then who was  _ Stan _ with? They'd been dating since forever, hadn't they? Randy could've sworn it was just yesterday that his boy was crying into his Count Chocula about her. "Wendy! Wendy. Listen to me, and listen good. If Stan isn't with you, his  _ date, _ then who is he with?"

Immediately, she burst into laughter. "Oh my god, we haven't dated since, like... a long time ago. It's been years, and we're just friends. Doesn't he tell you anything?"

"What... of course... Stan tells me everything. He's a good boy!" The blood was rushing to his head. Or was it draining from it? He wasn't quite sure, but that didn't hinder his determination at all. Deciding Wendy was no use, he staggered off.

He couldn't give up. He couldn't give up on his boy. Suddenly, he felt inclined to weep. What if he didn't find him in time? What if he succumbed to the same mistakes as his father, before Randy could ever tell him just how much he loved him?

The DJ did something to the lights. It was like a beacon was called to him: there he was. His tall, black haired boy, slow dancing with Gerald's boy—

"Stannie, my boy, my sweet boy—" He truly was weeping as he tried to pull his son out of Kyle's grasp into an embrace.

"I'm still Craig, Mr. Marsh."

This was it. He couldn't take it. Randy fell to his knees, burying his sweaty, red face into his hands. "Staaaaan!" He cried, mournfully. "Stan... Sh... Shelly... You don't want a Shelly, my  _ boy, _ my sweet little—"

"Jesus fucking Christ, he's right over there, dude," tall not-Stan interrupted him with a poke to the shoulder.

At the promise of his son being nearby, Randy looked up with bleary eyes, looking in the direction that was indicated to him. He saw a black haired boy dancing with a girl with long blonde braids. This kid had to be on crack, because— 

"That's not Stan," he said with a loud sniff. "That's that Stoley boy and the Knitts girl."

Kyle looked down at him like he was a defective iPad. "That's literally Stan and Kenny."

"S-Stan? Kenny?"

Kyle rolled his eyes. "Yes, Stan and Kenny. They went together as friends. Dude, we all went together in a group. And took pictures outside of  _ your _ house, but you were busy buffing the scratches out of your car and having, like, seven beers."

Randy struggled to lift himself off the cold, waxed wood of the gymnasium floor. "It's called a lager flight and it's a very important Germanic tradition."

_ As friends, _ Kyle said, but Randy saw with his own drunken eyes, Stan and Kenny leaning close, like they were going to— " _ Stan! _ " Randy found the resolve to rise to his feet once more. His son was so close, all he needed was a few more footsteps to get there and—

"It's the time of the night folks," the DJ said, who sounded eerily similar to the DJ who happened to work at South Park's very fine establishment that had locally sourced girls. "Time to announce your prom king and queen!"

The crowd moved like a wave, putting distance between him and Stan. To Randy, it happened in slow motion, and all he could do was reach his hand out with an elongated  _ no. _

The throng of teenagers and chaperones alike surrounded the stage like an undulating body of water. Did this make Randy a salmon having to swim upstream? Or perhaps he was more like Moses, destined to part the Red Sea. He ran through the crowd, channeling the energy he gained from his life-sustaining bottle of wine to shove people out of his way. The gym was stifling, even more so with the people brushing against him, and he screamed something unintelligible as he pushed every formally dressed teenager with whom he made contact aside.

"All right folks, the students have decided your prom queen is....." The DJ took a very brief pause— "Kelly Rutherford-Minskin, give it up for Kelly Rutherford-Minskin, be sure to tip your waitress."

The crowd cheered, and jumped, and Randy was sure this would be his end. He would be suffocated in a sea of sweaty teenagers before he could stop his son from repeating history.

"And now for our prom king, everybody loves a prom king, let's give it up for Stan Marsh! Come on up, Stan Marsh! Be sure to tip your waitress and let's get those kids up on  _ staaaage." _

Far out of reach, he watched Stan move toward the stage. Step by step he got closer, not only to getting his crown, but to his inevitable doom. Prom king was the worst thing that could happen to Stan, following ditching early. But if he could get to him before he was crowned, it wouldn't be too late.

Just as everything seemed to be happening slowly a moment before, everything now was fast paced and desperate. It was the adrenaline coursing through his veins, that parental instinct to protect his son from very foreseeable doom. Shoving students out of his way left and right, he followed after his son.

"Stan! Stan!" He called as he made it to the stage, he just needed to get up to the stage. Tripping on a step, however, prevented him from making his way there as intended. Instead he fell flat on his face, half on the stairs, half on the platform, hand outreached for his son. "Stan..."

Stan looked at him as if he were a ghost. "Aw...  _ awh. _ " He pinched his nose, shutting his eyes, and lowered his voice to a whisper. "Dad, what the hell are you doing here?"

"I can't let you do it, Stan," Randy croaked, lifting his now-bloody face. "I can't let you make the same mistakes that I made."

Stan didn't pay him any regard as PC Principal crowned him and the girl who stood next to him on stage. It was in that moment that Randy knew he failed. 

But he learned something that day. Not that he had to let his son live an independent life, no—he learned that mixing a flight of German lagers and a bottle of red wine on an empty stomach was a bad idea. He should've stayed by the cookies.


End file.
